


It Pleased Me

by twitch



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Demonic Possession, Gen or Pre-Slash, Is There Such a Thing as a Nice Demon, Kylo's Not in the Picture Yet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitch/pseuds/twitch
Summary: Armitage Hux takes his shoreleave to Arkanis. At the Commandment's request. Arrives at his childhood home. But it's not his father, the Commandment, he meets.





	It Pleased Me

**Author's Note:**

> A delayed fill for Huxloween. Day 3 was Possession/Exorcism. Kylo doesn't feature in the story but gets approval from important figures.

As a child he knew his father was a cruel man. He saw his influence and his direct actions, physical and verbal, the mental and emotional. The children, the students – graduates and peers. He intimidated everyone he could. Destroyed the reputations of those he couldn’t. Made those under his influence learn his ways to gain his respect. Destroy or be destroyed. 

Whenever he was asked about his actions, kindly and falsely labelled as “questionable”, he said they were a necessity. To siphon out the weak, to strengthen those who had potential. They had to grow harder, stronger. 

He knew better. He had seen what Brendol did. He still remembered the smoking blaster hanging from his side, other hand bloodied and gesturing for the officers to remove the dead man from the foyer of his house. 

He lived through his tirades and beatings. A three-year-old didn’t have the same means to defend himself against a grown man. That was the reason he clung onto, defenceless and on the verge of tears, cradling his broken wrist, the blistered bleeding wound thick enough to be a gauntlet. 

His father – no, the Commandment, scared him. Even without fists or clutched weapons bearing down on him it took little to make him flinch away. On Arkanis. The Destroyers that took them to safety in the aftermath.

In the Academy he could feel his eyes on him. Scorning him from a distance, unheard and unseen from the corridors and classrooms. Older students under the Commandment’s thrall. Teachers mocking him. All of it was a constant burning, deep into wounds that time couldn’t heal.

The angry red welt that never left his wrist, itching underneath the thick fabric of jacket and gloves.

Returning to the Commandment’s house, hollowed like the man himself, Armitage spared a passing glance at the foyer. Once it had been opulent, the Empire allowing its men and women to live in prestige. Now it was bare, the drops of blood on the wood never cleaned. He received the message to come back on his next shore leave. He told the Commandment when he’d be available. 

He never got a response back, presuming he would bow to his needs, bowing to his fists.

Hux was not about to make this easy on him and call out. The house was quiet despite the wind outside, whipping harder in prelude to a storm. Yet knowing the Commandment he’d be upstairs in his office. No longer a room where he worked from. The man had been forced into retirement. Now it was an altar to his glory days.

Once his feet left the stairs, solid on the creaky wood, he could see the light from under the door. Deciding to humour the old man, ideally keeping this a mostly pleasant affair, he knocked. “Sir?”

The door pushed open from the force of his hand. He hadn’t used that much weight so it had to have been ajar. That was unlike the Commandment, always formal. Defining his boundaries. Making people call him by title and work for his time and attention.

There was also one light on, the glorified oil lamp from the desk, behind the Commandment, close enough to the window to flicker every now and then. Not bright enough to be seen beyond closed door.

The Commandment gazed outside, unmoving, rain starting to form on the pane. Believing this to be a test Hux waited, standing without shifting, back straight, chin up. After several minutes, neither moving or speaking, Hux pursed his lips before trying again. “Sir?” 

It was not sharp, knowing he could easily be chastised for speaking out of turn. It was a practised tone, half inquisitive, half reverent. It had the reddish-grey hair shift a bare inch sideways. 

The chair turned slowly, but not for any visible effort he could detect by polished boots.

Hux started to cock his head, ready to raise his voice again, but stopped when the Commandment faced him.

Blue eyes like his own glimmered briefly in the dim light, glowing the same faded orange as the lamp.

“Armitage.”

The name warned him alone, croon foreign. The only tone the Commandment ever used was decisive, hard, loud, which never addressed him by name.

The voice echoed off the bookshelves and walls, lips unmoving. 

Hux didn’t move, not for the door, not forward. He was rooted to the floor, fear somewhere in the back of his mind, a small secret spot a three-year-old developed. The young man in the office didn’t betray that emotion, analysing the situation, if there was any chance to breakdown something that shouldn’t be happening.

“This is happening, young one,” the voice said again from behind the Commandment’s motionless lips.

Taking a quiet inhale, bemused but not trembling, inside or out, Hux glanced over the man who should’ve been his father. “Who are you?”

“You’ve known me for a long time.” The portly redhead moved around him, making no sound on the floor that creaked with under the slightest amount of pressure. His hand lifted in the same fluid movement, shadows sharp behind a fat arm. Gloved hand rested on Hux’s shoulder, heavy and cold, yet soothing. Unfamiliar. “I’m more father to you than this Brendol man.”

“So you’re responsible for beating an innocent child,” Hux countered once he stood before him again. Sharp shadows should’ve loomed over him from the left but they danced around the room, sharp and volatile, moving closer and then drawing back. His shoulder still felt cold where him – it? – touched him. 

The Commandment shrugged, shoulders and arms looser, almost disjointed, unfitting the military man. “I looked out for you.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t award you as father of the year.” Hux glanced to a shadow that drew up to his side, a cold touch of spindly fingers tracing from shoulder to fingertips. His left wrist pulsed with agony, burning and blistering like it had all those years ago. A child flinched but he stood firm, mind racing. “Although that title doesn’t sound like the right fit.”

The mouth didn’t move but eyes brightened, the burn curling towards the pupil. It was smug and pleased. “You have no idea.”

“Who are you?” Whether or not this… not-father would answer his question, Hux repeated the question, then shook his head. “How did you get to know my father?”

“You always were a sharp boy.” Shoulders straightening, pushed back, it looked more like the Commandment, taking on the tone and shape he used for regaling the bored and interested with his adventures. “It was a chance encounter. For all his attempts to use cunning and brute strength it sometimes failed him. It must’ve been some time after he met your mother. I remember returning with him after a mission. He was furious that she didn’t destroy the evidence of their dalliance. I was pleased, I could see what he couldn’t. I could feel her blood, your blood, your potential. I told the Commandment he needed to keep an eye on you, to teach you, raise you. Instead…” It shook his head, a chuckle mirroring the wind outside. “Instead the fool man was scared of you.”

The lamp flickered but Hux paid no attention to it. “Scared of me? He never showed it. I was scared of him. He scarred me.”

Hux made to move his fist, shaking it in proof of one of the many things the Commandment did to him but gentle hands held his arm immobile, shadows cold and firm, waiting for it to reach out. The scorching touch on his skin abated, a warm reassuring caress that thrummed with his heartbeat by the time the gloved hand loosely circled his wrist. “I can bring many forms of torture to those who incur my wrath, regardless of gender or race. But I can protect the ones who need it.” Eyes that had been blue were nearly orange at this point, only a thin icy line remaining around the pupil. “The pain you were raised by was unnecessary. Cruel when you needed love. But it has its merits. This galaxy has suffered from too many wars. Agony and death thrived. It is time for a reign of peace, of sovereignty. Your suffering will guide you to the path to ensure that no one else will have to endure the pain. You will meet a man in black who will make this all possible. Together, joined, you will change the galaxy for the better. I will ensure the Commandment suffers for his mistakes.”

It was chance that a beetle find it’s way to Phasma’s possession. 

Chance that Brendol’s death was never labelled as murder.

And watching Starkiller burn planet after planet, the Hosnian system in flames, he could feel the soothing touch of another fire stoke him from toe to head, eyes a light.


End file.
